Bad Elf and The Krampus: A Twisted Christmas Tale

Author’s Note

Bad Elf and The Krampus is an updated version of Bad Elf. Some characters and scenes were changed and added in order to create a foundation for a larger story.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

1 - Christmas Canceled!

2 - Un. Can. Cel.

3 - Reindeer Games

4 - Perma-swear

5 - Happy Christmas Eve!

6 - The Trouble With Being Santa

7 - Lame!

8 - Elf On The Frigging Shelf!

9 - Secret Santa

10 – Careful What You Wish For

11 - Dunkelstimma

12 - Letters To Santa

13 – A Slippery Slope

14 - Make Like An Elf

15 - Battle!

16 – Santa’s Secret

17 – One Christmas Wish

About The Author

Cover Art

Preview

One Last Wish

1 - Christmas Canceled!

Holy hell, it’s cold!

That’s about all Jackie Rumpus might have to say about life at The Pole, except that it is also dark and dreary. And muted. And desolate—with a bitter and biting swirling wind. You won’t find it on any map, but The Pole is a snowy campus nestled in the valley between seven mountains known collectively as The Crown. The path into this world tucks between a gap between the Crown’s tines…where legend says an eighth mountain once stood but was stolen. Can you believe that? A mountain…stolen? Even if you could steal a mountain, what good would stealing one do?

Anywho…The Pole, of course, has more to it than cold and mountains. The campus itself mixes new buildings and old, fantastic cottages. And, of course, it also has reindeer—housed in a small, red and weathered barn way off campus because, let’s face it, reindeer stink. And in such a place where downwind happens to be in just about every direction, it is best to keep the beasts away.

And, of course, The Pole has Santa Claus, whose familiar black boots crunched through the snow to the reindeer barn to spend a few minutes of his day with his oldest friends—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. Oh! And Rudolph. We can’t forget Rudy. Santa’s team. They had been with Santa on many Christmas Eve adventures and even more less-Christmasy adventures. Often, it took just a few moments, checking in with them to calm Santa from an otherwise crabby day. Today was one of those crabby days. Come to think of it, most days lately have been crabby days, with Santa holed up in his corner office at North Pole Headquarters, fumbling over a problem he couldn’t quite place. Something troubled him, but Santa couldn’t figure out what. And unfortunately for Santa, today’s visit with his team would offer no relief from said crabbiness…it would make it only worse. But it just might help expose what was troubling him.

He reached the small barn, creaked open the doors, and flipped a set of those old-timey knife switches—the kind that spark and smell of ozone when thrown—and a series of lights flickered brighter, illuminating row after row of reindeer pens, several stories high. Now, you might wonder how so many reindeer could fit inside such a tiny, old barn, but things at The Pole aren’t always what they seem. For in addition to cold, reindeer, and Santa, The Pole had magic. Polar Magic.

Boys and girls! Santa called. The reindeer met his greeting with braying and lowing, grunting. A few elves working in the humid space called back a round of hellos before returning to their work. The pens closest to the doors held his team, and each was marked with an ancient and weathered wooden nameplate, painted with flaking gold and red paint in the long, scrolling lettering the elves fancied. As Santa stepped over to the pen with Blitzen’s nameplate, he tripped on a small, tan, saddle that some rogue elf had forgotten to put away. Son of a- he winced, catching his words before tumbling down with a strained ho…ho…ho.

A concerned red glow brightened from Rudolph’s pen. Santa’s leg had bent at just the wrong place! Bent at just the wrong angle! Not merely sprained or strained, but clearly broke. And so very close to Christmas Eve. Santa winced, less from pain and more out of frustration, as he slammed the saddle against the pen. He stared where it fell as a few stable elves rushed over. And try as they might to help him, Santa shushed them away, assuring them that he was fine. More than fine. The best ever, in fact!

Clearly not fine, one of the stable elves mumbled as they went back to work.

Ya think? another replied, glancing back at the old man. You know who forgot to put the saddle away?

The first elf shook his head, startled when Santa groaned to his feet. Santa’s famous A-merry-Christmas-to-all-and-to-all-a-good-night! shout was a mere casual greeting in comparison to this groan. Sounded as if his very soul had fled from his body. Santa grabbed a tiny shovel and snatched the saddle before hobbling back out into the cold, grunting with each step.

Several minutes later, he staggered into the bright-white infirmary…the Elf Hospital tucked neatly in the corner of Headquarters. With every step, he winced and grumped, leaning on that shovel that smelled like the parting end of a reindeer. The nurse elf took his shovel and led Santa past the large central fireplace, past rows of mostly-empty elf-sized beds to one of the two grown-human-sized beds that rarely ever saw use. Now, you might be wondering on the size of an elf-sized bed. Well, most elves would come up to just over Santa’s knee, and the nurse elf was no different. She grunted under the weight of Santa’s hobbling, for he leaned his entire weight onto her cap—a regular flip-front nurse cap that Santa had smushed, and whose top draped down the back in a long, candy-striped stocking. Her bright-white uniform refused to let go of a few cherry-colored stains from patients suffering from the Sugarplum Trinkles over the years. Oof! she grunted, the bell on the end of her cap rattling with each step until The Missus rushed in and took her husband’s weight.

It’s broke, Santa grumbled towards the bed. Tripped over a saddle. His frustration sneaked away from him in the way he enunciated saddle, baring his teeth.

The Missus sat next to him on the bed and let the nurse inspect the leg. I tell ya, if you’re going to go joy-riding you should bring someone to help. She rubbed his back. For moments like this!

I wasn’t riding. Just visiting. It was one of the elves. Left the saddle on the floor. Probably left in a hurry because they were riding one of my team. The nurse and The Missus gasped. I know, right? How many times do I warn them that nobody rides Santa’s team except Santa? He grunted but then howled in pain as sparks fizzled from the nurse’s hands over his leg and broken bones crunched and twisted back into place.

Well, that will set it, she said. But I still need to put it in a cast.

Snowballs, Santa groaned, folding his arms across his chest.

The Missus watched him pout. What can you do? she finally asked. Can’t just cancel Christmas.

Santa turned an eye on her…now there was an idea. I’m so annoyed right now. I don’t feel very Christmasy.

Nonsense, dear. You haven’t been very Christmasy all year. On his sharp glance, she added, Just saying. If we followed the Chinese calendar, this would be the Year of The Crab. Not that they traditionally have Crab Years, mind you.

You’re not very comforting.

You’ve been such a crab-butt, I think your hinder just might be forming an exoskeleton, she smiled with a wink. It was a subtle smile and an equally subtle wink, but they had the most not-so-subtle effect on melting Santa’s heart. She always made him grin. And once he did so, she leaned into him for a hug as the nurse wrapped his leg. I’m sorry you broke your leg. And I’m sorry for whatever it is that’s been troubling you. I wish you would talk to me about it.

"I wish I knew what it was." And this was no lie, for the amount of time he spent trying to figure it out had grown from hours to days, to weeks and then months. He’d sit at his desk, staring at his computer screen, sometimes crushing candy, sometimes distracting himself with social media and finding whose Instapic snapshots might warrant inclusion on the Naughty List. And though it looked like he might just be goofing off, he was always wondering what to do about something.

But what was that thing?

The Missus watched him think with some suspicion that finally gave way to giving him the benefit of the doubt. If he actually knew what was bothering him, he had always been the kind of elf who would do something about it. Do you know who’s been riding your team?

I’ve my suspicions. The question is… He trailed off, nodding his forefinger against his nose. What to do about it?

And that question brought a twinkle to his eye, for The Missus was right about him. If there was something to do, he would do it. The gears in his head cranked and turned, and spun together a plan.

By all accounts, the factory floor of the Toy Shoppe was a happy sweatshop—bright, colorful, warm—where row after row of festive elves worked tirelessly at their workstations, making toys, and singing along to holiday music. They moved at a feverish pace, to you and me, zipping along with their hand tools and such…but to them, their pace seemed pretty normal.

But then there was Jack, who hardly moved at all. As a matter of fact, if Jack could not move at all, he’d be not moving at a feverish elf-pace. But, of course, he couldn’t not move at all, certainly not with the angry music blasting in his earbuds. He sat on his work stool, bopping along and tapping a candy-striped ring against the tabletop of his workstation. In his early twenties, Jack had reached the point in his life where even though he wasn’t quite an adult elf, he was expected to be, well, more adult-like. Like Santa, he felt stuck. But, unlike Santa, Jack knew what his problem was, and he knew what he needed to do. He needed a change. As he tapped that ring to the music, he fantasized about what he planned to do.

His eyes, circled by dark eyeliner, stared off into space under a curly mop of jet-black-dyed hair. He wore a pale makeup to hide the natural rosiness of his cheeks, but he looked as dark and cold as the outside. The fake piercings and intentionally-torn clothes were Jack’s way of saying, "If you’re going to look at me, don’t look at me." Folks at The Pole didn’t know what to make of him. He was restless, bored, angry, a loner, weird, and well, very un-elf-like.

Even the things that made him happy and excitable were odd. Most all the elves, for example, idolized Santa. But not Jack. He idolized Krampus. Like some rock-star roadie, across the back of his red work vest, Jack had dramatically etched his idol’s name. And who is Krampus? A demon. A Christmas demon. A demon whose job is to punish the naughtiest of children on Christmas Eve.

But there was something else that made Jack happy and excitable…Candi Kane. Candi was more like your stereotypical, bright-eyed, elf. A stark contrast to Jack, the only hint of darkness in her was her necklace pendant—a jack o’ lantern bat, made festive with a Santa hat. Her long, blonde bob had a shock of pink in the bangs today—a dash of color that often reflected her mood. Jackie! she shouted, yanking out his earbuds and startling him from his daydream.

Gah! What? He quickly put the candy-striped ring on his middle finger.

Don’t you want to win the contest? She pointed to the factory wall, to a large poster that showed a happy elf riding alongside Santa on a snowy night, delivering presents. It read:

RIDE WITH SANTA!

Jack turned to his small stack of half-baked, pathetic toys. A few were truly inspired but with Jack’s own dark twist. His latest doll, for example, was of a bride. A corpse-bride. Emptiness peered out from her button eyes; empty, yet thoughtful; as if her mind twisted upon itself every bit as much as the horns that spiraled out from her head. Jack picked her up and admired that dark gaze. Nope, he said as if the answer to Candi’s question should be obvious. Why would he want to ride with Santa?

Just then, Santa charged into the factory on the catwalk overlooking the elves. Sporting his leg cast, he thumped along with a cane, which he whacked against the railing to command attention. Here, in front of the elves, it was easier to see he was not the jolly, fat elf we expect. Instead, he was more of a grumpy dad. Towering over the elves, he grunted in disgust, throwing down the saddle over which he had tripped. Work stopped as everyone gave him their curious attention. Eying Jack, Santa grumbled, Someone has been sneaking Rudolph out for a joyride! How many times do I have to tell you that nobody flies Santa’s team, but Santa? A collective gasp from the elves nearly sucked the air from the room. Candi turned to Jack, wide-eyed. Jack mouthed that it wasn’t him. The Missus says, and The Missus is right…Christmas is canceled!

Heartbroken, the elves all mumbled and groaned, turning to one another…surprised and confused. But, astonishingly, nobody was more upset than Jack. He kicked at the table leg and marched straight up to Santa, bounding up the stacked presents on up to the catwalk, coming nearly face-to-kneecap. The rosiness of his cheeks burned, shining through the makeup. Rumplemints! He stomped his foot. "You can’t just cancel Christmas!"

Language, Rumpus. Santa shot Jack a very dad-like warning glare. But it was more than just a dad-like warning glare. Once the frown gave way to an arched right eyebrow, a sigh escaped Santa’s lips, his head cocked just slightly askew, and his left cheek pulled in a slight twist, the warning glare had finished morphing into what the elves called The Santa Look. And it was an annoyed, somewhat pained, look that was used almost exclusively for Jack.

Jack breathed heavy as they stared down one another until finally, Jack broke. Christmas ain’t yours to cancel. Everyone turned on Jack…un-be-lievable. And the leers and jeers didn’t end as their shift suddenly ended and the elves all made their way back to their dorms. All through the crowded hall, elves bumped him, nudged him, poked him and did what he hated most…they looked at him, with glaring eyes, of course, all giving him grief for getting Christmas canceled. Candi did her best to chase after him.

Way to go, Snowflake! Feliz snapped, just as he pushed Jack up against the wall and held him there. What Feliz lacked in height, he made up for in stockiness…unusual in both, in regards to an elf.

Feliz’s taller-and-skinnier-than-usual crony, Mickie, chimed in. I busted my jingle bells trying to win that contest! Mickie’s elf hat flipped forward from him snapping his neck so hard with anger.

Jack remained calm. I didn’t cancel Christmas.

Why do you hang around this loser? Feliz snapped at Candi—who tugged at his arm to get him off Jack. His loser comment didn’t bother Jack at all, but when Feliz bumped Candi away, he totally lost his cool. Jack grunted, kicked forward and slammed Feliz against the opposite wall.

You gotta problem with me? Fine! he snarled. You don’t touch Candi.

And now Candi tugged at Jack’s arm, flustered in trying to calm everyone down. It’s all right, Jackie!

It’s Jack! he shouted, before releasing Feliz.

Feliz adjusted the collar on his workshop vest, watching Jack walk away before finally hissing just loud enough, Freak!

Feliz… Jack stopped, and stomped back to Feliz. We live at The Pole. We dress like this. Make toys so that some jolly guy can deliver them on to people who put weirdly-decorated trees in their living rooms. Trees! In their living rooms! Jack shook his head. You ever think we might all be freaks? He stared into Feliz’s empty expression for a moment before storming away.

Candi paused in his wake, sighing, before catching up to Jack. I don’t understand you, Jackie. Why do you hate Santa so much?

I don’t hate him, he shrugged, pushing through the crowd.

Jack reached his room. The nameplate on his door had been marked up so that JACKIE RUMPUS now read JACK KRUMPUS. His own Goth scribbles flourished across his door—flying skulls, lurking ghosts, strange fantastical creatures that came from his imagination—like a patched and stitched-up rag-doll puppy with deep, hollow, eyes and a flaming tail—and, of course, a doodle of his idol, Krampus. In addition to those doodles, vandals had marked his door with very un-Christmasy words and images. Freak, Loser, and #Snowflake peppered depictions such as Jack getting run over by a reindeer. Jack never bothered to remove the vandalism, for he found the irony of their hate juxtaposed with anti-Christmas sentiments slightly